


About Time

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Thomas never went into service, but worked with his father as a clockmaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Mr. Carson doesn’t like the family to see the tradesmen,” Jimmy said, as he led the man into the grand hall.

“Right. What am I meant to do if one of ‘em shows up, then? Dive behind a plant?”

Jimmy didn’t have an answer for that. “Just…be discreet.”

“Right,” the man, Mr. Barrow, repeated, a world of scorn in that single word. “Discreet. That’s my middle name." Jimmy felt like a fool, but they weren’t his rules, they were Carson’s. Jimmy had worked very hard for a very long time to get on Carson’s good side. He wasn’t going to jeopardize it now.

“Here it is.” Jimmy stopped in front of the tall grandfather clock. Barrow—a clockmaker, Jimmy supposed, although he didn’t know whether Barrow made clocks or merely repaired them—stopped and set down his toolbox. He was younger than Jimmy had expected, and handsome enough to make Jimmy feel a bit ill, in the good way. Jimmy was ignoring that. He always ignored that. Well, most of the time.

“What’s the trouble?”

“It’s broken.”

Barrow looked at him. He’d taken off his cap when he’d come into the house, and his black hair was long in the front, his fringe hanging almost into his eyes. You wouldn’t get away with that in service, Jimmy thought. He tried to imagine the man with his hair slicked back, like Mr. Richardson the valet, but he couldn’t quite picture it. “Yeah, I gathered it was broken. I mean, how’s it broken?” His tone was condescending. 

Jimmy bristled. “I mean, it don’t…it doesn’t work. Isn’t it your job to find out why?”

“All right. I suppose it is.” Barrow looked the clock up and down, appraising. He’d done the same to Jimmy when Jimmy had met him at the back door, staring for a long moment until Jimmy, uncomfortable, snapped, “Are you here for the boiler?”

“The clock,” Barrow replied. “Where’s Alfred?”

“Gone to work at a restaurant in Ripon. Why? Were you mates?”

“No. Just wondering.” Barrow smiled idly, and Jimmy was suddenly embarrassed for no reason.

Now, Jimmy watched as the man opened the clock face. He moved the hands, gently, back and forth. “When did it start having trouble?”

“I don’t know. A few days ago?”

Barrow opened the lower part of the clock, the door in front of the counterweights. Jimmy had no idea what it was called. He knew nothing about clocks and cared even less. “You haven’t got to stand there,” Barrow said, as he bent to peer inside. “I can give a shout when I’m finished.”

“Mr. Carson wants me to keep an eye. In case you need anything,” Jimmy added, but the look on Barrow’s face told him he knew it was a lie. 

“And because the old bastard doesn’t trust me.”

“I’m sure that’s not it.” It was.

“Mr. Barrow Senior was a great man,” Carson had told Jimmy. “Recently passed on, alas. I’m not certain his son has the same…commitment to standards.” Which meant Jimmy had to spend his morning loitering in the grand hall like a prison guard. He wouldn’t have minded—the job was easy and the man was good-looking—but he had his own work to be getting on with, and Jimmy was certain Carson would conveniently forget this time-consuming assignment if the rest of his tasks weren’t done by dinnertime.

“So what’s it like, then?” Barrow asked. He had the face completely open, and was peering into the guts of the clock like a surgeon. “Being in service?”

“Fine.”

“You enjoy it?”

“It’s fine.”

Barrow bent down and rummaged in his toolbox. “Only, handsome chap like you, I’m sure you could make it in the pictures or something. You’re better lookin’ than Valentino, and I’ll tell you that for nothin.’” He picked something up and dived into the clock again, without looking at Jimmy. Jimmy stared steadfastly at a hideous portrait of some hideous Grantham ancestor on the opposite wall.

“Strangely enough, that never seemed like a career possibility.”

Barrow laughed. “You got your heart set on being a butler like Carson, then? Stuffy and boring and full of himself?”

“Mr. Carson is an excellent butler.” Jimmy had never felt the need to defend him before. They rarely saw eye-to-eye, as it were, but that didn’t mean any untrustworthy tradesman could waltz in here and start disparaging him.

“That’s what I said,” Barrow replied. Jimmy shook his head. “Must be lonely, though. Bet you don’t meet a lot of girls.”

“Are you nearly done?”

“Won’t be long.” Barrow fiddled with something. “Clock’s just overwound, that’s all. You need to—” He was interrupted by the sound of high-class, feminine laughter on the stairs.

“Over here.” Jimmy pulled at Barrow’s arm. Lady Grantham and Lady Mary were coming down. Jimmy could see their feet. Carson didn’t want their eyes sullied with by the sight of the lower classes, and Jimmy was damned if he was going to give Carson reason to say he wasn’t doing his job.

He glanced about. Apart from the potted plant mentioned by Barrow, there weren’t many hiding spots, and even less time. Hurriedly, Jimmy pulled the man into an alcove beneath the stairs, only realizing once they were in there that it wasn’t really big enough for two people. And that there was no reason for Jimmy himself to hide.

“Well, this is excitin’. And humiliatin’.” Barrow’s chest pushed against Jimmy’s. His breath smelled, not unpleasantly, of cigarettes and it wafted over Jimmy’s cheek.

“Sorry,” Jimmy whispered. His heart was beating unreasonably quickly. Barrow had to feel it. “I don’t want to get in trouble, that’s all.” Carson hadn’t said it directly, but now that Alfred was gone, there was a chance Jimmy might be promoted to first footman. A chance. If he could keep his nose clean. “I’m always getting in trouble.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

Jimmy felt Barrow’s hands on his waist. Jimmy raised his own hands, to push him away. Instead, they landed on a pair of broad shoulders.

“You’re bloody gorgeous,” Barrow murmured. Jimmy didn’t need that. Flattery meant nothing to him. He knew he was handsome. What Jimmy wanted, deeply and secretly, was this: to be close to an equally handsome man. To be wrapped in strong arms. To be kissed. To feel the slide of dry lips against his, the sensation of a saucy tongue slipping into his mouth. Jimmy craved it and longed for it and desired it more than anything else. It was so wonderful and so dangerous it made his head spin.

The sound of receding footsteps on the marble floor outside snapped Jimmy back to reality. He pulled away. “Jesus,” Barrow gasped, out of breath.

Jimmy straightened his jacket. “We should go now. I’m sure they’re gone.”

Barrow grabbed Jimmy’s arm. His cheeks were red and his eyes shone brightly. “You get time off, yeah?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Come ‘round my place. My dad’s kicked off, I’m on me own.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Jimmy felt a wave of true regret, but he pushed it aside. He was trying to avoid trouble, and that was about as much trouble as it was possible to find.

“It’s all right. It’s safe.” It wasn’t. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll look after you.” Those words, in that voice, put a flutter in Jimmy’s heart. Very briefly, he considered it. An image came to mind of a little tradesman’s cottage with a rough hewn wooden bed, wider than Jimmy’s own, where he and Barrow could explore and pleasure one another for hours, without interruption. Jimmy let himself enjoy that thought for a moment, then put it back where it belonged, locked up tight to be revealed only as a fantasy in the dark of night.

“I’m sorry.” Jimmy forced a smile. “I think you’re all right to go back to the clock. I’ll ask Mr. Molesley to supervise.” Jimmy couldn’t stay, not now. As he walked away, the man called, “Wait!” Jimmy turned around. “What’s your name?” Barrow’s voice was plaintive, almost bereft. We’ve only known each other five minutes, Jimmy thought, incredulous.

“Jimmy,” he said, automatically. “I mean, James.” He corrected himself, and walked on.

Barrow stayed in Jimmy’s mind for the rest of the day. This was unusual. Jimmy had had little flings before, very rarely, and the men were out of his head the moment they left his body. But this man’s face, and his hair and his smell and his feel, didn’t go. They haunted Jimmy, giving him an itchy sensation at the back of his neck, like fleas, all day and all evening. By the time Jimmy got to bed, he was exhausted, but still, he succumbed to temptation and touched himself, thinking of Mr. Barrow. He came quickly and messily, coating his hand. It didn’t help. He fell asleep still beset by the urge to scratch some unreachable place.

The next morning at breakfast, Jimmy said, as casually as possible, “The clock’s all right, then, Mr. Carson?”

“Hmm?” Carson glanced up from the newspaper. Mr. Richardson sat beside him, flirting as always with one of the young housemaids, while Mrs. Hughes looked on with a disapproving glare. “Oh, yes. It appears so. Perhaps Barrow has more about him than I thought.”

“Good. That’s good.” There was no Earthly reason that should please Jimmy, but it did.

“The Dowager is sending over some of her furniture today,” Carson went on, as if that were a logical continuation of the conversation. “Lord Grantham wants them moved into the yellow bedroom. You’ll need to be very careful, mind. They’re heirlooms.”

Of course they are. “Yes, Mr. Carson.” Jimmy smiled, his back aching already.

It was not as bad as he feared. The “heirlooms” turned out to be a chaise longue and a small armoire, along with two boxes of assorted decorations.

“Look at that, then.” Frank, the other footman assigned to the task, took a jade dragon out of a box.” He made a roaring noise and jammed it, none too gently, into the side of one of the hall boys who’d dragged up the armoire. The boy squealed, Frank snorted a laugh, and Jimmy suddenly missed Alfred.

“Don’t you have to get ready for lunch?” He asked. A glint of something in the box caught Jimmy’s eye. He reached in to take it out. It was a carriage clock, gilded with foil.

“Spoilsport.” Frank sighed and set the dragon atop the armoire.

“You can go, as well,” Jimmy told the boys. Once he was alone, he placed the clock beside the dragon and studied it. He wondered whether Mr. Barrow would like it, or whether he would find it gauche. It didn’t look particularly old or particularly valuable. The gold leaf was flaking in places, revealing coarse-grained wood beneath.

With the queerest sense of detachment, Jimmy watched his hand go out and open the clock face. With one finger he turned both of the black metal hands, slowly at first and then quicker, until he heard a crack and a sproing and the hands would move no more. Then he shut the clock face and went to find Mr. Carson.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy had been right about Mr. Barrow’s bed. Mostly.

It was large, at least in comparison to the dollhouse-sized thing Jimmy had in his room. Rather than being knocked haphazardly together from a few logs, though, it was intricately carved. Jimmy grasped the headboard with one hand. With the other, he traced the curlicues and wooden rosettes as behind him, Thomas panted and groaned.

“Jesus, Jimmy.” Thomas kissed the back of Jimmy’s neck sloppily, his hand stroking Jimmy’s just-spent cock. It was far too soon for another go, but Jimmy appreciated the thought. He appreciated a lot about Thomas, he was finding, and very little of it had been expected. “Can we…” Thomas’ voice was strangled, and rough in a way that sent shivers up Jimmy’s spine. “Can I see you?”

“You want me to turn over?”

“If you want to.” Normally, Jimmy didn’t. He could admire a masculine body—and he did—but the thought of a heavy, hairy man sweating on top of him, weighing him down and making him sticky and messy, was usually the furthest thing from erotic in his mind. This time, it felt different.

“All right.”

Thomas pulled out. Jimmy rolled onto his back, his head on the pillow. Thomas smiled and Jimmy brought him in for a kiss, his legs winding almost automatically about Thomas’ waist.

“Jesus,” Thomas repeated, his voice muffled against Jimmy’s overwarm skin. “Thank you.” He slid in again, his thick cock nudging Jimmy in a place that sent a renewed shock of pleasure through Jimmy’s relaxed, satiated body.

“You’re welcome,” Jimmy replied, magnanimously, although he couldn’t help but feel he was getting at least as good as he gave out of this.

***

Mr. Carson refused to bring Mr. Barrow back to repair the Dowager’s gilded carriage clock. “Nobody is going to miss it,” he said, when Jimmy brought it to his attention that the clock was “mysteriously” broken.

“I’m sorry?” Jimmy was certain he must have misheard. Carson’s tone was casual, almost cavalier. Perhaps, Jimmy thought, he’s taken ill.

“I’ve seen the clock in question,” Carson said. “It…falls far below the standards of the house. The next time Barrow’s here, I’ll have him look at it, but there’s no sense in bringing him in just for that.” Of course. The clock was ugly, and the yellow bedroom was used only rarely, never while Jimmy had been at Downton. Carson’s words made sense. Unlike Jimmy’s feeling of disappointment at the decision, which made him cross and caused him to snap at Frank when Frank tried to share some bawdy limerick about a woman from Nantes.

Many weeks passed. Jimmy wanted to push Barrow out of his mind, but stubbornly, he remained. He haunted Jimmy’s mind, but in actuality, their paths didn’t cross again until the annual cricket match between the house and the village.

This was a very serious affair, apparently, at least it was to Lord Grantham, to the point where Carson gave them time off—during the day, no less—to practice. Jimmy wasn’t good. He wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t good. Sport had never been a priority for him. He was still better than Branson, who sat beneath the shade of the tent on the day of the match, chewing his nails and saying, “You wouldn’t take my turn at bat, would you?”

Jimmy looked at him. “You don’t want me to.”

“I do. I don’t want to go first. I was hoping to escape without being utterly humiliated, and they say he’s the best player on their side.”

So it was fine, Jimmy supposed, if he was utterly humiliated, then. “Who is it?”

Branson looked towards the pitch. Jimmy followed his gaze. Mr. Barrow stood beside the wicket, adjusting his gloves and laughing with a group of men on the village team.

“All right,” Jimmy said, impulsively. “I’ll do it.”

Jimmy hoped he projected confidence as he strode up to the wicket, although nerves turned his stomach and made his hands shake against the bat. Stupid, he told himself. They’d shared one kiss in an alcove, while Lady Grantham and Lady Mary passed unawares beside them. Barrow probably didn’t even remember it. Jimmy would have forgotten it himself, but for this strange, indefinable hold Barrow seemed to have over him.

Jimmy looked up. The sun glinted off Barrow’s ice-white cap as he tilted his head. Jimmy squinted, but he could have sworn he saw Barrow smile before he lobbed the ball at Jimmy.

It came in fast, much faster than anything Frank or Branson or Mr. Carson had bowled during practice. Out of pure instinct, Jimmy raised the bat. He was as surprised as anybody when the ball collided with a crack. It sailed past Barrow and past the man at fine leg. The outfielders scrambled for it, and Jimmy got his runs in. As he passed Barrow, the man smiled, again, and Jimmy couldn’t help but do the same.

***

“I’m no good against left-handers.”

Jimmy looked up from his tea. “You played very well, Mr. Barrow.” The village had beat the house team by a decisive margin, much to the chagrin of Lord Grantham. He was off somewhere, presumably drowning his sorrows with a stiff whisky, while the rest of the team made do with tea and finger sandwiches in the stuffy heat of the tent. Jimmy supposed it was something. They could have just been sent back to work.

Barrow licked his lips. Jimmy shifted his gaze away, to where a red-faced Mrs. Patmore was doling out sandwich rations with the severity of a field marshal. “You been all right, then?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“I ain’t been up to the big house in a while. You lot takin’ care of your clocks?”

“It would appear so.” Jimmy’s voice was frostier than he’d intended, but there was nothing for it. There was no other way for this to be. They could be friends, Jimmy supposed, there was no law against that, but Jimmy didn’t need a friend and he doubted Barrow did.

“Listen.” Barrow edged closer. His hair, damp with sweat, shifted across his forehead; he pushed it to one side. “I meant what I said, about you comin’ ‘round my place.”

Jimmy’s eyes snapped up. There was a gabble of conversation around them, enough that even Jimmy had to strain to hear Barrow’s voice, but that didn’t mean it was safe. “Mr. Barrow…”

He held up a hand. “Just for a drink, like. No funny business, not if you don’t want.” He caught Jimmy’s gaze. Barrow’s eyes were pale, slightly different shades of blue, and captivating. A surge of sudden panic rose up in Jimmy, threatening to drown him.

“Congratulations on your win.” Jimmy placed his nearly-full teacup on the table. “If you’ll excuse me.” He took refuge in a knot of people on the other side of the tent, Frank and Molesley and Dr. Clarkson, who for some unfathomable reason had played for the house team, not that it had helped. Barrow didn’t stay much longer. He looked over before he left. Jimmy could see him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t turn, and when Barrow left, he didn’t glance back.

***

 _Just for a drink, like. No funny business, not if you don’t want._ The words replayed themselves over and over in Jimmy’s mind, like a faulty phonograph record. The more he tried to forget them, the more prominent they became. They kept Jimmy awake at night, whispering in his ear. They were there while he worked, superimposing themselves over Lady Grantham’s prattle and the Dowager’s devastating witticisms and even Carson’s orders until Jimmy found himself standing in the linen closet one afternoon with no clue of why he’d gone in.

Jimmy didn’t want a drink. Rather, he did, but he wanted the funny business more. He wanted that very much indeed. The mere thought of it lit him up like a chandelier, sending sparks of electricity through his body. He’d felt it in the alcove, in Barrow’s arms, and he’d felt it again in that oppressive white tent, looking into those eyes.

There was nobody Jimmy could to talk to. Alfred might have lent an ear, if he’d been there, but Jimmy would have had to couch the situation in so much euphemism and outright lies that whatever advice he offered would be of no use at all. Frank wouldn’t even be that much help. All he ever wanted to discuss was motor cars and dirty jokes. Jimmy was alone. He fretted alone, he suffered alone and, just as he thought he might actually crack, he reached an epiphany, alone. In a hundred years, nobody will care what I did. I’m not that important. In twenty years, likely, nobody would care. It was a touch fatalistic, perhaps, but it was also strangely freeing. He had the best night’s sleep he’d had in months, and when he woke up, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

Jimmy’s next half day was Thursday. At four o’clock, when he finished work, he went upstairs and changed into his grey suit. He fixed his hair and tied his shoes and picked up the gilded carriage clock he’d taken from the yellow bedroom.

His new-found courage didn’t extend to just showing up at Barrow’s cottage, but the clock was a perfect excuse to go there. He tucked it under his arm and headed downstairs, treading carefully. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention on his way out which meant, of course, that the moment he put his hand on the doorknob to the outside, Mrs. Hughes’ voice said, “James? What are you doing?”

Jimmy considered, briefly, thrusting the clock beneath his jacket, but that would have seemed only more suspicious. “I’m taking the clock to be repaired.”

“Is it not your half-day?”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched. Jimmy’s throat was dry, but he refused to clear it. “Well,” Mrs. Hughes said, finally. “That’s very conscientious of you.”

“Thank you.” Jimmy didn’t pause to let her think about it further. He opened the door and headed down to the village.

Jimmy was a gambling man. The thrill of uncertainty, of having something riding on an outcome one couldn’t control, was exhilarating, but still, nerves outweighed excitement as he stepped up to Barrow’s door.

Barrow lived and worked in the same building, a cottage with half-dead flowers in the front and a mountain of ash beside the steps, as if somebody had been sitting there smoking for years. It was bigger than the house where Jimmy had grown up, but working at Downton Abbey had skewed his perceptions, and to Jimmy, the house looked small, even poky.

He squared his shoulders and raised his hand to knock. Before his fist could connect with the wood, there was a sound behind him. Jimmy turned and saw Barrow coming up the lane, his tool kit in hand.

“Hello, Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy smiled. It seemed better than not smiling and, in any case, it came naturally when he saw the look of shock appear Barrow’s face. Barrow stopped where he was, blinking ridiculously, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Jimmy? I didn’t…I mean, I wasn’t…expecting…”

Jimmy liked that. He liked knowing his business while those around him floundered. It gave him a sense of calm, almost of enjoyment, and his smile grew as he held up the clock. “I wonder if you might take a look at this for me.”

The cottage was clean and tidy. It was the first thing Jimmy noticed about it, one they got inside. Jimmy’s own room at the house was tidy, as well, but only because Carson could look in at any time and often did. Left to his own devices, Jimmy would have been unconscionably slovenly, and Barrow was left to his own devices. He’d told Jimmy that his father had recently died and he lived alone.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Barrow seemed to have recovered the power of speech, at least, but he picked things up seemingly at random—a book, a glass ashtray, some unidentifiable tool—and replaced them in the same spot. “Something to eat? I haven’t got much in.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then seemed to realize he was still wearing his cap. He took it off and hung it on a peg by the door. It fell off. “I could do you a sandwich, or…”

Affection appeared out of nowhere, warming Jimmy’s heart unexpectedly. He never felt affectionate towards men. He never felt affectionate towards anybody. It was an odd feeling, and nearly enough to send Jimmy back into a panic. But he breathed deeply and remembered his new mantra: Nobody cares. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“What about a drink?”

“Whisky, if you’ve got it.”

Barrow went to a cabinet. He poured two glasses and passed one to Jimmy. It was good, much better quality than Jimmy was used to having, unless he sneaked the dregs from the unfinished glasses as he cleared them from Grantham’s study. He said as much, and Barrow laughed. “It was me dad’s. He had good taste.”

Jimmy hesitated. “My father is dead, too. In the war.” He’d been too old to sign up, really, but they’d been so desperate by that point they were taking anybody.

“Did you go over?”

Jimmy nodded. They’d found him on the battlefield to give him the news about his father. He and Jimmy hadn’t been particularly close. James Kent Senior was a rigid, unforgiving man, but still, Jimmy wondered who had thought it was a good idea to inform him of his father’s death when he himself sat in a foxhole surrounded by shelling.

Barrow took a long drink from his glass. “Let’s have a look at your clock, then,” he said, and he went over to what looked like his workbench.

The verdict came within a minute. “It’s buggered.”

“What? How can you know that so quickly?”

Barrow turned the clock to face Jimmy, who sat beside him, but the mess of cogs and springs inside meant nothing. “What happened to it?” Barrow asked.

Jimmy buried his face in his glass. “I don’t know. It came from the Dowager Countess’ house.”

Barrow frowned. “They’re usually very careful with their clocks over there. They have me in for maintenance every six months.”

“I don’t know what happened, all right?” The reply was perhaps a little too forceful. Barrow blinked, seemingly taken aback.

“Well, in any case, it’ll cost more to fix than the clock’s worth. I can do it if there’s some great sentimental value or summat, but otherwise I’d toss the thing.”

“All right. I’ll pass that on.” If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Hughes, Jimmy would have just sneaked it back into the yellow bedroom and said no more about it.

“Carson’ll probably tell you I’m an incompetent cripple,” Barrow went on, lightly, “but me dad would have said the same thing.”

“What? Why would he call you a cripple?” Carson wasn’t given to fanciful insults, and there was nothing wrong with Barrow that Jimmy could see.

Barrow blinked again. “Nobody’s told you?”

“Told me what?” Jimmy’s heart beat a little faster. “What’s wrong?” Barrow looked at Jimmy. Holding his gaze, he reached up to his right eye, to the eyeball itself, and tapped with one finger. It made a dull, quiet tock. “Oh. You’ve got a glass eye.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jimmy felt stupid. Barrow knew that, of course, and it was a ridiculous statement to make.

“Shrapnel. First day in France. Tea wasn’t even cold when I got home again.”

“Oh, my God.”

Barrow shrugged, seemingly nonplussed. “Yeah, well, it could’ve been a lot worse. You need two good hands to work with clocks, but you only need one good eye.” A frown passed over Barrow’s brow. “Don’t go feelin’ sorry for me, now. I’m fine. I hate people feelin’ sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you.” It was true. But Jimmy did feel for him. More than was usual, more than he felt for anybody else. More than was safe, surely, but a recklessness possessed Jimmy that couldn’t, he thought, be entirely explained by two fingers of good whisky. With his free hand, the one not holding his drink, he reached out and touched Barrow’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Thomas,” he said, and Jimmy kissed him.

***

Afterwards, when Thomas had come long and hard inside Jimmy and Jimmy was less disgusted by that sensation than he had ever been before, they lay together in that wonderful carved bed. The sky turned grey, then black outside the window, and finally Jimmy murmured, “What time is it?”

Thomas reached for his pocketwatch. There was no clock in the bedroom, which surprised Jimmy, but then the bed took up so much room, there was hardly the space for anything else. “Nearly nine o’clock,” Thomas said. Jimmy was surprised. It explained why hunger was gnawing so determinedly at his stomach, but normally, Jimmy would have grown bored and gone home hours earlier. It’s time to stop comparing this to “normal”, Jimmy thought. There’s nothing normal about any of it. At all.

“I need to be back at the house by ten.”

“Mm.” Thomas groaned and came back, pressing into Jimmy’s side and resting his head on Jimmy’s shoulder. “You could spend the night.” His voice was muffled by Jimmy’s body.

Jimmy raised a hand and stroked Thomas’ soft, dark hair. “Not if I want to keep my job.”

“Leave your job. Come and live with me. I’ll look after you.”

Jimmy had never, not once in his entire life, desired to be a woman. He’d seen what they had to put up with, and it wasn’t a path he ever wanted to face. But now, just for a moment, he thought how nice it would be to marry out of service like so many maids and cooks he’d known, to have everybody at the house happy for him because of it, to set up a home and a life with a man and be accepted—even lauded—for doing so. But it was a meaningless thought, which led nowhere, and Jimmy put it down almost as soon as he picked it up.

“I’ll come back another day,” Jimmy promised. “I’m off after church on Sunday. We could have a picnic.” Nobody would see them, if they went far enough out of the way, and if they kept it decorous, there would be no reason for complaints anyway, now or in a hundred years.

Thomas turned his face upwards. There was such an expression of joy on it that, for a moment, Jimmy felt the weight of it like a physical pressure on his chest. “Sounds wonderful," he said. “And don’t break no more clocks, all right?” Thomas nudged Jimmy’s ribs. Before Jimmy could be affronted, he went on, “If you miss me, write me a letter or summat instead.” Jimmy smiled. Happiness, which he very rarely felt but always recognized, bubbled up inside him. On the other side of the bedroom door, a clock chimed the hour, and Jimmy pressed his mouth against Thomas’.


	3. Chapter 3

“I can't believe you!” Rage coursed through Jimmy in a way it hadn't for a long time. He reached out for the first thing he could lay his hands on, which, naturally, turned out to be a clock. A gold carriage clock with a white face and Roman numerals. It fit nicely in the palm of Jimmy's hand, and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hurl it at Thomas' head. 

“I'm sorry.” For what it was worth, Thomas did look sorry. It wasn't worth very much. Neither was Thomas, now. 

Jimmy sighed and put down the clock. “I can't believe you'd be so stupid.” 

“I'm sorry.” Thomas' voice cracked. “I wanted a better life. For both of us.” 

“So you signed your home and your livelihood over to a bloody crook.” 

“That's not what happened.”

“Oh, no? Because it sounds like that to me.” It was a slight exaggeration, but only slight. What Thomas had done, he'd just explained, was invest a large sum of cash in some sort of newfangled automated plough, despite knowing nothing about farming, and despite meeting the inventor in a pub in Kirbymoorside. Jimmy would have liked to know exactly what this “inventor” said, because those words had convinced Thomas to take out an enormous loan. So enormous that he'd been forced to put up his house and all of the assets of his father's clock repair business as collateral. The “inventor”, to nobody's surprise but Thomas', hadn't been seen or heard from in months. Thomas had finally deigned to tell Jimmy all this, coincidentally just as the bank was beginning to make noises about needing repayment. 

Jimmy reached for the clock again, this time to definitely throw it at Thomas. Before he could do so, Thomas stepped forward and grabbed Jimmy by the wrist, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to stop him. Jimmy looked up. Thomas' fringe had fallen over his forehead, and he was close enough for Jimmy to notice the slight differences between his real eye and his glass one. “It may surprise you, Jimmy, but I've never relished the thought of spending my entire life as a clockmaker in Downton.” 

Jimmy knew that. They'd been together for over a year now, as friends and lovers. Jimmy spent every spare moment he had with Thomas, in Thomas' cottage or taking walks with Thomas or even, on one memorable and thrilling occasion, going to York for two nights with Thomas. He knew Thomas, or he thought he had, and Thomas knew him, too. Jimmy didn't want to spend his life as a footman any more than Thomas wanted to spend his life staring at the innards of clocks, but Jimmy had thought they were going to address the issue together, when it was time. It wasn't time yet. 

Jimmy pulled his hand away. “I'm going.”

“Fine.” Thomas pushed his fringe away from his face. “I'll speak to you later.”

Jimmy couldn't resist a parting shot. “Maybe,” he said, and left the cottage.

Despite that, he expected a letter from Thomas to appear at Downton Abbey, full of apologies and begging Jimmy to meet with him. Nothing came. There was nothing the next day, either. The third day, Jimmy was off at four o'clock. He normally would have gone directly to the cottage, but today, he hung back. _If he's not going to come to me_ , Jimmy thought, stubbornly, _then he can bloody well hang for all I care._ He sat at the lunch table, fuming over a bowl of Mrs. Patmore's cock-a-leekie soup, until Mrs. Hughes said, “I don't know who I'll get to check the linens with me this afternoon. Laura's visiting her poor mother, and all the other girls are so busy.”

“I'll do it,” Jimmy said.

Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson turned to him, staring as if he'd just offered to personally launder every item in the Crawleys' wardrobes.

“I beg your pardon, James?” Mr. Carson glowered. _That's nice,_ Jimmy thought. _I was only offering to help._

“Isn't it your half day?” Mrs. Hughes' tone was kinder. 

“I've not got anything planned.”

“You're not seeing Mr. Barrow, then?” Frank asked, his mouth full of bread.

“Sorry, does this involve you?” Jimmy snapped, suddenly irritated. 

Frank shrugged. “I just thought you always went to Mr. Barrow on your days off.” 

“I's very kind of you to offer, James,” Mrs. Hughes cut off any answer Jimmy could make, which was probably for the best. “And I could certainly use the help, if you don't mind.” 

“Of course, Mrs. Hughes.” He gave her his most dazzling and sincere smile, and contrived to elbow Frank in the ribs as he reached over for the plate of buns. 

The linen cupboard wasn't somewhere Jimmy had spent much time. It was a small room of shelves piled high with white linens, smelling of mothballs. It reminded him of his grandmother's house, a place he hadn't been in over twenty years. When he arrived, Mrs. Hughes was already there, holding a ledger. “If you would just mark off the items as I list them, this will take no time at all.”

Jimmy took the ledger. Mrs. Hughes' handwriting was small and neat. She handed him a pencil and turned to the nearest shelf. “Forty-eight hand towels, good quality,” she said, and Jimmy marked an X in the appropriate column, wondering how anybody could ever need that many towels.

“Twenty hand towels, medium quality,” Mrs. Hughes said next, then, “Forty pillowcases, not embroidered.” She turned to another stack of linen, and Jimmy searched the ledger for “pillowcases.” As he did so, Mrs. Hughes said, conversationally, “I think the clock in the parlour needs seeing to. It's keeping terrible time. Have you noticed?”

“Not particularly.” 

“Still, I think it might be best if we have Mr. Barrow come out and see it. I've always been told it was old Lord Grantham's favourite clock. It would be a shame if it wasn't properly looked after.” 

“Yes.” Jimmy could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. He had been discreet, hadn't he? Mrs. Hughes had caught him sneaking out on his half day with one of the Dowager's old, broken clocks, but that was more than a year ago. People knew he and Thomas were friends, there was no shame in that, but surely nobody suspected the truth? 

“I don't think I've ever mentioned this to you, James—twenty-four pillowcases, embroidered—but there was a time when I thought of leaving service.” Jimmy said nothing. It didn't deter her. “Oh, it's so long ago now. Almost another lifetime. Ten pillowcases, small. I thought I might marry, you see. He was a lovely man, but in the end, I chose this.” _Counting other people's linens_ , Jimmy thought. _What a wonderful decision._ She turned to him, and for a brief, harrowing moment Jimmy wondered if he'd spoken the words aloud. “Sometimes, life forces your hand, and you've got to follow your heart.” 

Jimmy swallowed. “Seems like a better idea to follow your head. If you don't mind me saying.” 

“There are those who would agree with you. Mr. Carson, for one.” She smiled. “But your head can get muddled, sometimes. Your heart will never steer you wrong. Seventeen large towels.” A frown came to Mrs. Hughes' face. “No, that's not right. There's meant to be eighteen, isn't there?” Jimmy looked at the ledger and prepared for a long afternoon. 

As much as he tried to forget them, Mrs. Hughes' words kept coming back. They were wrong, surely. Thomas had gotten himself—had gotten them both—into this mess by following his heart. But Jimmy loved him all the same. As time passed and Jimmy's irritation faded, the thought of never seeing Thomas again began to seem like an impossible situation to abide. 

The evening before Jimmy had decided he would finally give in and go to Thomas' cottage, Thomas came to him. Jimmy was alone in the boot room, polishing His Lordship's riding boots, when there was a knock on the outside door. He slid back the bolt and opened it to see Thomas standing in the doorway. 

“Oh, good.” Thomas smiled, slightly. “I hoped you'd answer.”

“What if I hadn't?” 

Thomas held up his tool kit. “I was going to offer one last look at the clocks before I go.” 

“Go?” Jimmy stepped back to let Thomas in. “Where are you going?”

“York. I've not got a job, but I can't stay here. If I don't find anything, I'll head to Newcastle, maybe, or Birmingham. Maybe even London.” 

“Oh.” Jimmy's stomach twisted. That was stupid, of course. With no job and no home, it was obvious Thomas had to move on. He was doing the sensible thing, for once. 

“I'll keep in touch,” Thomas went on. “If you, ah, if you want me to.” 

“Of course I do.” Tears pricked suddenly at the back of Jimmy's eyes. He clenched his fists and refused to let them fall. 

“Right.” Thomas sighed. “I'll be off, then.” He turned towards the door. 

“Wait.” The word flew out of Jimmy's mouth before he could restrain it. Thomas turned back. “I love you.” Jimmy couldn't recall ever speaking the words aloud before, which was ridiculous. They seemed so pale, so dull. They didn't come close to articulating what Jimmy felt for Thomas, but he could find no better ones. 

In an instant, Thomas had closed the distance between them and taken Jimmy in his arms. His cap fell off, onto the floor behind him. Jimmy knew, dimly, that he should be afraid of being caught, but he couldn't bring himself to worry about it. When Thomas pulled away, Jimmy's cheeks were wet, although whether that was from his own tears or from Thomas', he couldn't say. He wiped his face on his sleeve, not caring what Carson would say when he saw the large smear. 

“Good-bye, Thomas.” The words were heavy, like lead on Jimmy's tongue. 

Thomas sighed and bent to retrieve his cap. “My father knew,” he said, a seeming non sequitur. “About me. The way I am. He weren't bothered, really. He worried about me, of course, but he weren't disgusted or nothing. He wanted me to be happy.” 

“And are you?” 

“I was with you.” 

Jimmy bit his lip. Thomas pushed back his fringe, forever on his forehead, and said, “Good-bye, Jimmy.” Jimmy didn't repeat it. He couldn't. Instead, he watched in silence as Thomas left, shutting the door behind him.

When he'd gone, Jimmy leaned against the table. He felt ill and exhausted all at once, his head pounding and his stomach churning. He breathed deeply, the smell of leather and shoe polish overwhelming him, and closed his eyes. He breathed again, stood up tall, and made a decision. 

Thomas had made it only halfway down the path. He turned as Jimmy jogged up behind him. “I'm coming with you,” Jimmy said. Thomas opened his mouth, and Jimmy held up a hand. “Don't argue.”

Thomas ignored him. “You can't just leave, Jimmy.”

“Of course I can.” He didn't have any personal effects worth worrying about, and if they made a commotion about the footman's livery, he'd post it back. 

“What about your reference?” 

“Mrs. Hughes will look after that.” He hoped. 

“Mrs. Hughes?”

“Yes. I'll just tell her I followed my heart.” Followed it into the utter unknown but somehow, with Thomas there, it didn't seem like such a frightening thought. “It's better than counting linens, anyway.” Confusion creased Thomas' brow, but Jimmy didn't explain. Instead, he walked on, leaving Thomas to catch up.


End file.
